Chapter 27: Shadows of the Past
Kael sat at the kitchen table, the morning light filtering through the apartment's blinds, casting soft bars across the scratched wood. His guitar leaned against the wall, the leather strap's stars dulled by the quiet. A mug of coffee steamed in his hands, its bitterness a faint anchor after last night's electric set at The Hollow. Shatterpoint was at eight thousand listens, Flicker pushing two thousand, and the open mic's raw energy still buzzed in his veins, but a heavier weight settled in his chest. The Drift's gig was two weeks away, and Mira's shadowed eyes—her parents' pressure, Lex's persistence—lingered like a discordant note.
His mom shuffled in, her nurse's scrubs rumpled from a late shift, her hair tied back in a weary bun. She smiled, faint but warm, and set a plate of toast between them. "Saw your Hollow video on SoundSphere," she said, her voice soft. "You and Mira… you're something special." Her pride was real, but her eyes held the same worry Kael had sensed in her notes.
"Thanks," Kael said, his throat tight. He thought of her latest note, tucked in his notebook: "You're shining, but don't burn out." Her fear—music's cost, his dad's shadow—was a quiet undercurrent, and Kael felt it now, heavier than ever.
She sat, cradling her own mug, her gaze distant. "Your dad used to play like that," she said, the words sudden, like a door creaking open. "Raw, like his heart was on fire. Had a band in high school, wrote songs that made me cry. He stopped when we got married. Said it was 'practical.' Bills, you know." Her voice cracked, and she looked away, her fingers tightening on the mug.
Kael froze, his coffee forgotten. His dad's dismissal—"Dreams don't pay"—had always been a wall, but this was new, a crack letting light through. "He… played?" Kael's voice was barely a whisper, his chest aching with the weight of a history he'd never known.
His mom nodded, her eyes glistening. "Guitar, like you. He was good, Kael. Really good. But he thought he had to choose—music or us. He picked us, but it broke something in him. That's why he's so hard on you. He's scared you'll lose what he did… or worse." She reached across, her hand covering his, warm and trembling. "I don't want you to choose, Kael. But I'm scared too."
Kael's throat closed, his dad's ghost suddenly human, not a villain but a man who'd faltered. He thought of Juno's scars, Mira's leash, Veyl's rumored rebellion. "I'm not him," he said, his voice low but firm. "I'm not quitting. But I'm not reckless, Mom. I'm building something—me and Mira. It's real."
Her smile was small, tear-streaked. "I know. You're stronger than he was. Just… don't forget us, okay? Me, Mira, the people who love you." She squeezed his hand, then stood, brushing her eyes. "There's a box in the closet. His old tapes. You should listen."
Alone, Kael sat, the toast untouched, his mom's words a melody he couldn't shake. He found the box—dusty, taped shut—and opened it, revealing a handful of cassette tapes, labeled in faded marker: Blue Shift, 1998. His dad's band. His hands shook as he grabbed his old Walkman from a drawer, slipping in a tape. The hiss of analog gave way to a raw guitar riff, then a voice—his dad's, young and fierce, singing about stars and broken roads. It was unpolished, alive, like Shatterpoint's older echo.
Kael's chest ached, the music painting indigo streaks in his mind, a city at dusk. His dad had been like him—dreaming, burning—until he wasn't. The song ended, and Kael sat in the silence, tears pricking his eyes. He wasn't his dad, but he felt him now, a shadow not to fight but to understand.
His phone buzzed—a text from Mira: "Hollow vid's viral! 10k views. Meet at Bean & Beat? Need to plan." Kael wiped his eyes, typing back, "On my way. Got something to share." He grabbed his guitar, the strap soft against his shoulder, and tucked a tape in his pocket, a piece of his dad to carry.
Outside, the city was crisp, sunlight glinting off wet pavement, a busker's violin weaving through the noise. Kael's phone pinged—a SoundSphere comment on Shatterpoint: "Your sound's a fire we're all chasing. Keep it free." Anonymous, maybe Veyl, maybe the city. He thought of Mira's firefly stage, Juno's faith, his mom's trembling hand. The Drift was close, but this moment—his dad's voice, his own truth—was a bridge, tying past to present, pulling him forward.
To be continued…
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